One Day Like This
by Any Unborn Child
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. One-Shot. Shaken by despair and grief, John tries to survive day-to-day through routine and forgetting. Through one assignment from Ella, he is forced to process his emotions, and believe in the future.


One Day Like This

By Any Unborn Child

John's therapist had called them "grief spurts".

At any given moment, a torrent of emotions would rush back to him, suddenly and inconveniently.

When this happened, everything else in his mind escaped into nothing. At the same time, nothing seemed to escape his mind. The present began to fall away, and he was firmly placed in the past once again. He would remember all of the times he had become cross and yelled at Sherlock. He remembered all of the moments when he had feared for his life, in situations having to do with Sherlock. He remembered all of the moments when he felt as he if he had nothing to lose – all because of Sherlock.

Those reminders only served to bring John back to reality. The reality was that Sherlock was not going to come back.

He couldn't escape from the thoughts that swirled around him like a monsoon. He couldn't cope with crying and shaking uncontrollably until his body grew numb. He couldn't survive behaving like a child. He couldn't understand why he was in the present one moment, and in the past the next. He couldn't fathom why he was forced to relive moments of sheer terror, excitement, exhilaration, fear, love.

He did not want to remember anything connected to Sherlock. Not anymore.

He couldn't stand fighting a war with his own body, with his own emotions, with his own mortality.

Not again.

Nothing could be done. Nothing would change.

That didn't mean it hurt any less.

For the first three months, routine was his solace.

There were times when John thought that he could get back to normal. There were days when he tried to be as "fine" as realistically possible. There were days when he fooled himself in to believing that he was okay, that his heart didn't hurt. But, usually, he ended up failing miserably. He tried to go about his day, and busy himself with menial clinic work or something else along those lines. He tried to do his job – that is, brave through cases of measles, mumps, and whatnot, and make it back on the tube home, pining for a cup of tea and the oblivion of sleep.

But suddenly a wisp of dark curly hair would turn up in the distance. The swish of a long wool coat against clothing would strike his eardrums. Somewhere, stark yellow tape appeared in street corners, at random masking crime scenes and sanctioning memory. At these reminders, John would unravel once again.

When it got to six months, John went in for another appointment with Ella. At the last session, she had recommended that he write his feelings down in a journal. Beforehand he had used his blog to post about his daily musings. Most of his reflections relied heavily on Sherlock and the cases that they had solved together. Now the blog sat idle. It was floating in cyberspace like a plastic bag. Useless. It hadn't been updated for some time. It was not going to be updated again.

"I'm going to try something different with you, John."

The patient looked up, slightly puzzled. He paused before replying, "I don't understand."

Ella continued. "We will be continuing these sessions, but you have the option of limiting the number of times we meet per month. That is, if you show progress."

John squinted. Suddenly, words failed him. "I still don't understand. What are you recommending for me? Is it another kind of treatment?"

"No. We will still be meeting at the same time. But we're going to change your outside assignment. Instead of writing down daily journal entries, I will have you try something different. Have you heard of music therapy?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"You won't take part in an actual case study for music therapy, but you will be doing something similar. I would like you to find a new song, from any genre, to listen to tonight. After you listen to the song a few times, you can write down your observations. Such as, what you think is the message of the song, how do you relate your own experiences, or your own grief, to the song - observations like that. You can bring the observations with you to our next session, or you can simply tell me what your observations were. Does that make sense?"

To John, the whole thing seemed absolutely mind-boggling. Not in the actual observations – because he could observe and analyze the hell out of something, anything, if he wanted. It was the music. He had listened to the same type of music for years. He could always find something new online, but what would that do?

"Yes. It makes perfect sense."

"All right. I will see you next time. Good luck. "

Looking for a new song served to be a harder task for John than he ever realized. He browsed outdated review sites online, but found songs that streamed more non-sequiturs than actual lyrics. He then tried the radio for any popular songs. The vapid and pretentiousness of the songs were lost on him after ten minutes. He browsed the music library on his computer, but nothing seemed to pop out at him and say "Listen to me! Listen to me!"

He then texted a few of his colleagues (the word "friend" was lost to him somehow) to ask for their advice. Mycroft had too much on his plate for something as silly as this, so that was a no. Molly had always been kind to John, and, after Sherlock's fall (yes, that's what it was) she had taken the time to check up on him every so often - maybe she'd be able to suggest something. He didn't know if his sister Harry would respond, let alone mention any songs for him. But he had to try. Somebody from the family had to stay in contact with her.

For a while, he did not get any responses. John became discouraged, and then chastised himself for even becoming discouraged. It was not as if this situation was life-altering or anything. It was a simple assignment. Nothing more. At least, that's what he wanted to believe.

As a last resort, John sat down at his seat, the one that he had chosen as his own so long ago, and finally posted something on his blog. It was just a tiny blurb, two sentences that said,

"I'm back. Just for a while though. My therapist Ella has given me another outside assignment. I'm more willing to do it this time.

I'm curious. Is there anyone who would recommend a song for me?

Nothing fancy. Anything will do."

When the idea first came about in his mind, he had dismissed it. The idea seemed gratuitous. He had nothing new to report, nothing to say. Why sully the blog with such nonsense? No one cared about what his daily goings-on were anyway. Nobody cared about his problems, his worries. They had their own lives. Why bother them with minor details?

But John got to thinking. There may still be people on the other side, those who would be able to suggest songs for him. There may still be people online who understood his plight, and could possibly help him. It wouldn't be much, but it could still work. Whoever did look at the blog, whoever they were, they were still out there. They were still there.

It took an hour or so of waiting for an answer. In the meantime, John took this as an opportunity to make himself something to eat. Just some orange marmalade on a piece of bread. Nothing complicated. When retrieving the ingredients, he narrowly missed knocking over a spare specimen jar that had somehow traveled to the back of the fridge. Perhaps he had gotten less clumsy in his time with Sherlock. Who knows?

After sitting back down, he refreshed his blog one more time.

A comment.

He clicked on it, wondering who sent the comment.

It was anonymous.

The comment read, "You should listen to the song 'One Day Like This,' by Elbow. It might cheer you up."

John had never heard of the song, or of the band Elbow. Better late than never.

He opened up YouTube on another tab, and typed in the keywords on the search engine. He clicked the first link he saw.

The song took a few moments to begin. It was as if the song did not want to wear out its welcome. Even before it took its place onstage, or in this case, into John's ears, the song stepped into the limelight carefully. The potent hum of violins and the tapping of drums reminded him of folk art, with consistent beats and swelling orchestration. The sounds swayed in the air with a precise and unique manner. Before long, the vocalist finally began to sing, and with smooth yet gravelly intonation, he introduced the lyrics, giving them their own light to shine under.

The words in the song were simple. Yet, oddly enough, they were profound. Poetic in their simplicity, clear images draped over the song like a tapestry. Instances of kisses and eyes were mentioned, but not dwelled upon too often. The lines spoke of sun-drenched afternoons, cool nights, and times when all that really mattered is spending time with another person, with someone that one grew to care for, if only for a little while. If only after a short while. If only for the rest of time.

John was struck with these observations soon after the song was finished. The chanting echoes of the last lyrics still reverberated in the air, in his mind.

The song was a good one. It wasn't normally something that he'd listen to often, and the genre was new to him. Nevertheless, it stuck to him, blanketed over him like relief.

He put his head in his hands, supporting it the best he could. The more he thought about the song, about its words and the meaning that they held, the more he came to understand something.

With Sherlock, John had been able to attempt and accomplish deeds of heroism and deduction, and see more of humanity, both good and bad, than he had ever imagined. With Sherlock, John had survived experiences that he never wanted to look back on, and lived through ones that he wanted to repeat over and over.

When they were together, he could do anything.

What came to John was this:

He could do anything. He could still be anything.

Even without Sherlock.

He would not be where he was if not for Sherlock.

He wasn't as hopeless as he thought he was.

He didn't know if Sherlock would ever come back. He didn't know if he was to do in order to maintain balance or excitement, adventure or peace. He didn't know what life would hold for him.

The bond that he and Sherlock shared would still live on in him.

The future was open to all things possible.

It still was.

John raised his head, releasing it from his hands, and looked up. A small smile made its way onto his face.

Yes. He needed to hear that.


End file.
